


Brushes With Destiny

by yennefer-de-vries (deni_is_typing)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Yeralt, vengerwitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22881331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deni_is_typing/pseuds/yennefer-de-vries
Summary: Following the Netflix version. Just Geralt and Yennefer's random encounters between Bottled Appetites and Rare Species. This started out with a drabble on my Tumblr, too short to even consider posting it here. But I have since then written a slightly longer chapter and might add more if inspired.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Brushes With Destiny**

**I.**

Dying candle light danced over beloved features, painting pale skin in waning warmth. She traced the line of his sculpted jaw with her eyes, not daring to touch - touching would be losing the fight. She couldn’t lose. Not again, not to him.

What would be left of her if she stayed? Let him hold her again, kiss her with that mouth that took and took and gave nothing away? How could she wrench herself away from that limp shadow in the rubble again if she gave him another inch?

_ You left me. _

She drew in a sharp breath, hand clutching at her dress against her lurching heart, her head shifted on the pillow as she curled into herself slightly, eyes drinking in every last bit of him, taking stock of everything she’d have to remember. Old scars, new scars, the petulant, satisfied smile on his usually grim mouth, the circle of those arms which could swallow her whole…

She wanted to stay.

It was why she had to go.

“Geralt…” she whispered, unwittingly, into the quiet room - immediately regretting the impulse when he shifted in his sleep, leaning an infinitesimal inch closer, fingers almost touching hers on the bedspread. “Sleep…” she added, closing her eyes, breathing him in.

She tucked away the memory of his touch, the heat of his eyes, his ardent mouth, tucked it all deep within the chaos swirling inside her. No, she would not lose this time. The weak shadow in the rubble could stay there where she lay. She needed no one.

_ …and no one needed her… _ a voice from years ago whimpered, unbidden, unwelcome.

That voice she stomped out, it didn’t deserve to live inside her like he did.

Yennefer stood from the bed. She looked no longer at her lover, even if she could still hear his heartbeat, calling out to hers. She left the room, she left the inn, stepping out into the light of dawn, fixing her cloak about her shoulders, hands swirling the practiced motions, and she vanished into thin air - nothing was left behind but her heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Brushes With Destiny**

**II.**

Court life was tiresome, she knew that. Heavens, she knew that! Having wasted away in one for three frustrating decades. Now, even as an observer, she had started to lose her patience, retreating from the shadow of Ard Carraigh’s Hold and into a neighboring town where she could wait for her contact without being spotted by any liaisons for the Brotherhood. 

It was true she couldn’t offer her services for the people of Kaedwen, a promise she made to Sabrina Glevissig before leaving the guest room in King Henselt’s court, but she still had some gold left. Enough to buy a few days at the local inn. It was close enough to a mainroad that news and gossip from other parts of the continent might reach her, giving her clues as to where she could go next.

Of course, she didn’t expect the proximity to the mainroad would also bring her the witcher, once again. Fresh from a fight with a bruxa, still bearing open wounds and dirt under his fingernails, looking for a stable for his tired mare and room for himself. She found him sleeping on a haystack, early one morning - the innkeeper had refused to house a mutant.

Heavens, try as she might, she had been unable to walk away from him. His restless thoughts were so captivating - he was thinking of his mare, how close he came to getting her seriously injured. The unfeeling witcher, more concerned for his mount than for the still bleeding wound cutting across his ribs. 

She had patched them both up, since there wasn’t a healer in town that would see him and the stableman had been too frightened to come near the legendary Butcher of Blaviken. _ I suppose the Bard’s been remiss to bring his campaign to the outskirts of Kaedwen _ . Curiosity about his fight with the bruxa had her asking him questions, which she knew he found mildly irritating, but that only encouraged her more. 

She found his mind refreshing when he was irritable. There was so much he hid beneath that stoic exterior. Geralt of Rivia was a man who had a lot more to say than people realized. His mind was brimming with the things he didn’t say. He fascinated her every time they met while saying very little. The things he did say, seem to cost him something, especially when they were things he said to her. 

While it was easy and useful for her to pry into the minds of those she encountered, she found herself poking through his thoughts for more than her selfish needs. He had unwittingly given her useful information about where to go next. A godless little hamlet, three days to the south, abandoned by their King and starving for help she could provide them - gold was a necessity, even for one such as herself. But it was the other thoughts she was intrigued by. Like his vagrant thoughts about someone else’s child, and a guilt that accompanied it.  _ Strange _ . She knew witchers were sterile, so the child couldn’t be his. Why did he feel responsible for them? Why did he feel responsible for anything? A hired killer, ostracized from society, vilified by those who needed him, still so surprisingly empathetic. And so, so very quiet with that bubbling, eloquent mind of his.

“What are you thinking about, Yen?”

His husky, sleep-soaked voice drew her from her musings. Golden amber eyes peeked at her from beneath pale, drooping lashes. It bothered her how her heart jolted from such a direct, if languid look. She chuckled softly, stretching her arms over her pillow in an artful manner, knowingly drawing his eyes to chase the outline of her rising breasts beneath the thin sheets.

“Thinking about how dull this little town is and how soon I should leave, lest I die from boredom.”

Her artifice had worked, successfully distracting him with her body, which was so close to his. She knew he could feel her warmth as she could feel his. His thoughts immediately turned to desire, to the intimacy they’d shared, and how he’d like to share it again. 

Yennefer suppressed a laugh, glad he hadn’t been able to see the soft look she gave him while he was busy trailing his eyes over the shape of her body beneath the covers. A complex man in so many ways, yet so simple in others. A hot spark of jealousy rushed through her, as she wondered how easily he accepted other women’s offerings. After all it was a lonely existence, for a witcher, to be long lived but sidelined, to not be able to have a family of his own. Who knew how eagerly a man would take to a woman welcoming him into her arms after a long, cold journey in the mud, fighting monsters?

She squeezed her eyes firmly shut and shook that feeling away vigorously as his warm, gentle hand glided over her smooth stomach beneath the sheets and circled her waist, tugging her closer to him. His warmth enveloped her and his kiss intoxicated her. She was no longer sure about who had been distracting whom. But she welcomed it, kissing him back and rolling into him until their chests were crushed together, one thigh hooking over his hip in an open invitation, hands running through the pale strands of his hair, pulling him closer, her mouth prying his lips apart and welcoming his hungry licks and nipping teeth. His hands caressed knowingly, gliding over every dip and curve, tugging her closer, as close as it was possible until they were both thoroughly distracted.

Hours later, when the sun was fighting through the clouds, Yennefer lay awake, aware of his weight as he slumped over half of her body, arms encircling her, thigh pinning her legs beneath him, his warm, even breath on her breast, where his head rested. It should have bothered her, the way he clung to her, but it didn’t. His thoughts as he fell asleep had been sad, they had been about how he knew she’d leave again soon. Her heart lurched in spite of herself. How easy it would have been to reassure him in the dimming light of the room as the fire slowly died in the hearth. In the dark it would have been so easy to tell him she’d stay, that they could have many nights like this. It would have been a lie, but such a sweet one to say. And who would have made a lie of it sooner? Because she knew, if she didn’t walk away, Geralt would, like he had before. Whatever it was this thing between them, it was never built to last. They were two different creatures, shaped by different masters, with different loyalties. Or at least they had been. Yennefer’s loyalty was to herself now, she knew Geralt could never bear to be as selfish as her. 

A scraping sound interrupted her thoughts, and she turned her head in time to see a slip of paper slide beneath the heavy door. She saw the shadow of feet, saw them disappear, accompanied by quiet footsteps. With a frown, she moved, carefully dragging herself from beneath the man in her bed. She padded over to the door and kneeled, picking up the slip of paper. 

Sabrina Glevissig’s  _ friend _ had arrived.  _ Not really a friend _ , she had said,  _ an acquaintance. Not very reputable or trustworthy. But like you, Yenna, Madame Trevrim operates outside of the influence of the Brotherhood. Perhaps she can help you with your...problem. _

Her problem, as it were, was a hysterectomy. The price she was required to pay for the privilege of her position as a court mage. Her life’s purpose. Her supposed legacy. It tethered her to the Brotherhood unforgivingly. They were her only connection to the world, her only family, if she were to have one. Even if she had seen it for what it was back then, what else could she have done but paid the price? The reality of the lie of her choices caused bile to crawl up her throat and burn.

She walked out to meet with Sabrina’s contact. A short, mild mannered woman, hiding beneath heavy furs, concealing her features by keeping a large hood pulled over her head. They sat down and talked. Much like the other mages she had encountered while living outside of Aedirn’s court and the Brotherhood, Madame Trevrim was neither surprised nor pitying upon hearing her request. The woman had nodded, quietly pressing her lips in a tight line, eyes roaming the dim lit hall as she pondered. But then she started speaking of the same herbs and minerals she had used in previous, unsuccessful treatments and Yennefer dropped her head between her hands, while the woman persistently rattled off the list of ingredients necessary and her price. 

“Thank you for your time, but no, this isn’t enough.” She stood swiftly while the woman gaped at her. She dropped some coins on the table between them. “For your troubles…”

“Aren’t you even going to try?” the woman asked irritably.

“I have… you just want to sell me your stock… Goodbye Madame Trevrim.”

As she turned around, she found Geralt watching her near the stairs, a frown on his usually stoic face. She couldn’t help herself, Yennefer balked, staring back at him in surprise. He had heard everything.

It was his thoughts, not his words, that made her flee. Because he never said anything, when she refused to talk. But he thought about it, he pitied her and her plight, felt sorry for her and her desire for that which he believed to be unrepairable. There was a fatalism to the sentiment she couldn’t forgive him for. Even though he never said the words.

As for whatever he did say? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she’d lied to herself about that too. Perhaps she had always walked away for that which he didn’t say. What were thoughts worth when one could have them on a whim?


End file.
